When I wasyoung,my father wouldcomehome withboozeon his breath​anda strangewomanon his arm.And heforcesMomto sleep​on my floor."Shh,"he says,the tip of his finger​on my mouth.

When I wasyoung,my fathercame homewitha gun.He calls for my Mom, and when she steps into the bedroom, he aims the pistol, level with her head, and he pulls the trigger. Eyes wide, she screams a half-scream as the bullet misses her face and hits the doorframe. Then he turns, laughter in his stare and the tip of his finger - dirt under his fingernail - pointing at me.Until now,​​this was my secret.